


Of These Fallen Petals

by Yourfavouritechild



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Death, Hand Gun, Post Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yourfavouritechild/pseuds/Yourfavouritechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes' death is too much for John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of These Fallen Petals

     The pitter-patter of heavy rain swam around John Watson.  


_No, this can’t be, no. Why would he, it’s not happening, it’s not happening._  


     His body swayed with each step, the world spinning around him, clouded by tears. He blinked rapidly, breathing erratic. John felt as if he was choking on his own emotions.  


_No, Sherlock, no. You bastard, why..._  


     He slammed up against the ebony door of 221B Baker Street. Letting out a shaky breath and a soft whimper, he dipped his head back and pushed the door open. His body stumbled into darkness. He brought his right hand up to steady his head and his left fell to the wall of the staircase. He leaned his head against the wall, eyes burning, cheeks wet.

  _How could you leave me, why would you leave me!_  


     He wept so forcefully made no noise, except a high-pitched whine that escaped his open and frowning mouth. He pounded his fist against the wall with an angry roar.  


     “I... can’t...” John tripped over the words. He pushed himself off the wall and dragged himself up the stairs.  


_No, no, no, shit, fuck, damn, no, no, no.  I have to._  


     John dashed to his bedroom, not even bothering to turn the lights on. He reached his bedside table and opened up the bottom drawer. There is sat, reflecting the rain that showered outside. Black, untouched in months, John’s handgun. He snatched it, cold in his hand.

     “I...” he hesitated, running a finger over the metal. John bit his lower lip and a wail was released from his throat. He shut his eyes tight, salty streams cascaded to the worn floor beneath him.

_I’ve got to, there is no other option for me. He is... gone._

     John fled to the sitting room, getting one last glimpse of the dismal grey London from behind the clouded window.  


     “The world just,” he paused, licked his stinging lips. “Moves on around catastrophe.” He scrunched his face, as if disgusted with everyone in London, and shook his head quickly. John shut his eyes tight and pushed off of the window.

_I'm coming for you, Sherlock._

     The doctor broke down a final time, bent over himself, shaking and sobbing. He took a deep breath, stood up straight and nodded to himself. He sniffed, then raised the handgun in his right hand to his temple.

     “To the undiscovered country,” his brow raised and pressed together. John let out the quavering breath he was holding and closed his eyes. “You will understand.”  


     Then he pulled the trigger. The black metal cold under his index finger, the last sensations. His eyes flew open, his face frozen in a look of desperation and sorrow. The limp body fell to its knees, then forward onto its stomach. The carpet quickly became stained red underneath the man.

     Outside the rain surged on, splattering against the windows of the cold, lifeless flat at 221B Baker Street. The rain reflected off the warm ebony metal of the handgun, sitting loosely in the deceased’s hand, and the shadows of the raindrops spat at the empty body. The sitting room, abandoned, remained quiet and dark.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is reference to poem To My Wife by Oscar Wilde. Also, Hamlet's A3S1 soliloquy is reference in John's final words.


End file.
